


lilies and languors

by jaqhad (kyrilu)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/jaqhad
Summary: There's nothing Poe hates more than old Force artifacts that have a tendency to be explosive.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Finn
Comments: 14
Kudos: 88





	lilies and languors

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: _SW Sequel Trilogy, Any pairing, no OT3s, sex pollen and/or its aftermath._

This was, completely and utterly, Beaumont Kin’s fault. _Again._

This was like the time that Kin had picked up a glowing rock from the ancient ruins that the Resistance was temporarily using as an outpost, and then it exploded. It was like the time that Kin had inadvertently given Rose ideas about a new blaster design, something about a lightsaber sniper rifle from Jedi history, and then that had exploded, too. 

So, when Kin brings back a vase that he’d manage to bargain off Grakkus the Hutt during trade negotiations, nobody should’ve been surprised when Rey curiously squints at the faded symbols on the vase’s side, reads out loud a mantra that she recognizes from one of her Force books, and the artifact accordingly responds. 

The thing is, Poe’s actually prepared for this. He sees the strobe of light, and he’s already pulling Kin and Finn out of the way, bodily shielding them as much as he can. Rey, with her Jedi reflexes, is a lot more graceful about it, though she also has to do her own rescue thing, since Rose is slipping on a pair of goggles, saying, “How’s it doing that--” 

Poe gets the brunt of the blast, because of course he does. He’s not on fire -- after years of ungainly descents and landings, he’s more than familiar -- but it feels like he’s been shocked by an electric volt. He’s covered in something -- vase shrapnel? -- and then, one second, then another, and he sneezes. 

He blinks, his eyes adjusting with the blinding beam now extinguished. 

“... Are those flowers?” Finn asks.

They _are_ flowers. Little blossoms of red and pink sprout in the previously empty vase. Some of them had propelled outward as if fired out of a cannon, and that’s what peppers Poe’s flightsuit now. There are even flowers in his hair.

“Huh,” Kin says. “I didn’t expect that.” 

“I suppose it _is_ a vase,” Rey says, thoughtfully. 

Sighing, Poe reaches to brush the flowers from his curls, but Rose hums in warning. “Be careful. We don’t know if these plants are poisonous, thorny, or carnivorous.” 

She reaches for the mask respirator clipped to her belt -- though their base is here on Pacara, not Anoat, many Resistance members still carry them around out of habit -- and Finn follows suit, handing Rey and Kin extra breathers from his satchel. He’s about to give Poe one, but Poe shakes his head. 

“I don’t think there’s a point if I’m already this exposed,” Poe says. He feels like he’s waded through a greenhouse. And is it his imagination, or is he feeling slightly feverish, heat flushed on his cheeks and forehead? He frowns. “Right. Kin, call in a team to secure the control room, enviro-suits on. And we’ll need some med droids to look us over and scan the air…” 

* * *

Everything seems fine at first. The flowers don’t start eating anyone. The disposal team manages to put the flowers and the vase in tight vac-sealed bags. Rey, Finn, Rose, and Beaumont’s toxicity diagnoses come back negative, and Poe’s in the midst of waiting on the results of his -- he’s the last one, since he had to get out of his flightsuit and whisked into a safety shower, the flowers plucked out of his hair and his clothes. Bored out of his mind, he’s in exile in the med-center’s quarantine area.

It’s a narrow space, walled-off from the rest of the room. There’s the small cot he’s sitting on, a vacc tube, a sink -- more of a cage than anything, Poe thinks. This is all Beaumont Kin’s fault, and Poe would have burned the scholar’s books a long time ago if they hadn’t been about Jedi stuff that Rey and the general are particularly attached to.

“How are you feeling, Commander?” Doctor Kalonia peers at him through the small transparisteel window. 

“Still spiking a fever,” Poe admits. The heat is slightly more pressing now, as if he’s radiating sunlight. “But that’s it. Maybe it’ll go down after a pain capsule--?”

“I don’t want to just give you immediate treatment without knowing what we’re dealing with,” she says. “Your results came back, but I’m not exactly sure what they mean.” Kalonia rattles off a bunch of chemicals that Poe doesn’t recognize, then adds, “I’m going to consult Major Angon. He’s our resident botany specialist, so he might have seen something like this before. Just hang in there, Poe, and comm me if your condition changes.” She’s gone, her white coat fluttering behind her.

\-- Well. That doesn’t sound great. 

Poe leans against the wall that the cot is pushed up against. He taps his fingers on his knees. He’s not the kind of person who likes sitting still, and it doesn’t help that this fever’s burning through him in waves. 

It makes him dizzy, dazed, his eyelids dipping, droplets of sweat gathering at his temples. In his chest, his heart beats wildly, and he tries to think of cold things. Ice pops. Snow, like the Resistance had recently seen on Tah’Nuhna; like the stories that his dad had told him about Hoth whenever Poe complained about Yavin 4’s climate during father/son pathfinding trips.

His thoughts are interrupted by a tap on the transparisteel window. It’s Finn, who’s smiling at Poe ruefully. “You doing okay?”

Poe shrugs. “As well as I can. At least those flowers weren’t defoliator bombs or anything. Tell Kin that he’s on refresher cleaning duty for the next two weeks, and he’s using his own toothbrush.” 

Finn murmurs his amused assent. “Will do. Though you should know, he does feel responsible. He, Rose, and Rey are doing research trying to figure out what happened with that vase. They might be able to come up with something.” 

“Hope so,” Poe says. “Or hopefully this fever will eventually go away by itself.” He exhales, and for an abrupt, terrible moment, a dizzying sensation shudders through him, and he doubles over.

“Shit,” Finn says, his eyes widening in alarm. “Do you need me to call the doc--?” 

Poe makes himself straighten. “It’s okay. She’s doing her own research, and it’s probably best to leave her to it. Just feeling a little warmer.” 

Finn looks doubtful, but since Poe’s still breathing and conscious, he lets it pass. It’s one of those things that Poe’s occasionally guilty of taking advantage of -- Finn’s impervious reactions to most non-fatal illnesses and injuries, the First Order having taught him that everything’s fine as long as you can still hold a blaster.

After a beat, Poe says, “I’ve always hated fevers.” 

“It doesn’t look fun,” Finn agrees, his gaze sweeping over Poe. “We’ll figure this out, Poe. You’ll be back in the air by the next mission.” 

“Fevers and flying. Not a good combination.” And, then, crushing vertigo, his eyelids fluttering, his breath heaving, and it feels like -- it feels like ejecting into the darkness of space without a EVA suit -- it feels like his years-old dread of catching fevers, scared, terrified, what if this was _the_ fever, the curse on pilots who love the stars too much, which left his mother breathless and flightless--

No, this isn’t bloodburn. This is a Force-damned mistake and malady, the flowers nested on his hair like a crown, sweetness inhaled, fever-struck, and he--

Oh. 

Kriff. Pfassk. Kark. _Fuck._

“Finn,” Poe says, his voice tight, “there’s a… another symptom. And you need to go. Right now.” 

“What--?” And, stars, of course Finn sees: the prominent bulge straining through his flightsuit, and Poe flushes, mortified, throwing a blanket across his lap. If only this quarantine cell wasn’t so small, or he’d find a corner to hide in. 

Finn says, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

Poe refuses to look up. He’s dreamed up dozens of scenarios where Finn would see his dick hard, and a magic flower disease created by ancient crazy Force worshippers is not one of them. “Get out of here,” he says, roughly. “This is more than awkward, buddy. Go. Please.” Involuntarily, his hips jerk up, and he lets out a choked noise. 

It hurts. A lot. His fingers are yearning to touch, but Finn’s hasn’t left yet; in fact, as if paralyzed in place, he’s watching while Poe trembles, the cot shaking and shaking while he aches and aches. 

Then Finn blurts out, “Just -- just get it out of your system. I think you should-- do it. With your hand.” 

Poe laughs, a harsh half-bitten sound. “I’m always open to encouragement, but this isn’t the time for it. I’m gonna hold onto as much self-control as I can, and, buddy, you seriously don’t need to see me like this. Go back to the others, to Rose and Rey and everyone else, and -- don’t look.” 

_Please don’t look._

“I’m not gonna leave,” Finn says, and there’s determined resolve in his eyes. “I won’t comm Kalonia yet. But you need someone to monitor you. If this gets worse, if you’re able to beat this, then I’ll call her. I won’t look, alright?” And he draws the shutter across the transparisteel window, his face vanishing from view. “I’m here. Do whatever you need to do, and I won’t look.” 

Why the pfassk is this guy so stubborn? It’s not like that’s anything drastically different than watching -- it’s not like this is granting him much more privacy -- 

Except, except, Poe can no longer restrain himself, and he’s letting his hand stray to his lap, his palm quivering on his hardened erection. He grinds against it and groans, the tip twitching.

From the other side of the wall, he hears an indrawn breath.

Blindly, desperately, Poe keeps going. He casts aside the blanket, unzips his flightsuit, and takes his dick in hand, and soon, all he can do is stroke, squelching, hurried, hot. The fever is bearing down on him, delirium making the world spin around him.

“Finn,” he says, and he shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t call out his name, but the pathetic part of his stupid brain is _glad_ that it’s Finn on the other side of the wall, hearing him writhe. “It hurts -- gods, it hurts. But I think I’m close.” 

There’s that breath again, ragged. Then, a tap, like how Finn had announced himself earlier -- the sound of his hand pressing against transparisteel -- and Poe can see it, can picture it, Finn flush against the wall, listening and vigilant. Taking in every rustle and inhale and exhale. 

“Okay,” Finn says, a low rasp. “That’s good. Keep going.” 

Poe’s fever is climbing. He can’t think straight, and his hand drops to his side, useless, as he sways and staggers. He’s lost the rhythm that he’d kept up, and his cock is throbbing with searing pain.

The shutter on the window flickers open. And he sees Finn again, who’s looking at him, and he says, “Poe. _Breathe._ You can get through this.” 

And Poe imagines: Finn’s strong hands guiding him. Pinning Poe down, keeping him trapped between his well-toned thighs: _That’s good, that’s good, keep going._

Poe gasps, breathes _,_ and then, the last tug, and his dick pulses and spurts. He collapses supine on the cot, a boneless spent mess, come smeared and striped on his flightsuit. He licks his lips, moves his thumb to rub off the droplet on his chin, and Finn’s staring at him, silent, as if entranced, until he blinks, looks away. 

“You think you got it out of your system?” Finn says. He withdraws his hand away from the pane. “That was... intense.” 

Poe doesn’t respond for a few seconds. His heartbeat is slowly returning to its normal pace -- his erection is flagging -- and the fever is fading. 

Eventually, he says: “Yeah. I think it’s better now. Sorry, pal. You shouldn’t have seen that. We can forget it ever happened. It was the flowers. Poison. Toxins. Whatever that was.” 

“Yeah,” Finn echoes, softly. “Clean up, alright? I’ll get the doc.”

And Finn turns away, pressing his hand against the transparisteel for the third and final time, and Poe closes his eyes and tries, and fails, to take his own advice about forgetting. 


End file.
